When Sleuthing Spells Trouble, page 1
When Sleuthing Spells Trouble
Six years ago, Mariah Blackthorne was found lying on the floor of her home, unconscious, holding the murder weapon that had killed her husband. Swearing she had no memory of the tragic event but insisting she was innocent, she nonetheless agreed to a plea deal and went to prison for the crime. Now, out on parole and desperate to know the truth, she enlists the help of local sleuth Nora Charles to find out what really happened that day—even if it means discovering she was the guilty party after all.
Intrigued by the case and convinced of the woman’s innocence, Nora agrees to investigate. With her trusty sidekick warning her that they were headed for trouble, she unearths no shortage of suspects from the dead man’s past. But as she follows every incriminating clue linking the victim to his fellow doctors and even a long string of mistresses, vicious threats begin piling up telling Nora to back off. Facing down a killer who will kill again to conceal their guilt, she and Nick may end up solving a case they won’t live to remember . . .
Title Page

Copyright
When Sleuthing Spells Trouble
T. C. LoTempio
Beyond the Page Books
are published by
Beyond the Page Publishing
www.beyondthepagepub.com
Copyright © 2025 by T. C. LoTempio
Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs
ISBN: 978-1-966322-38-2
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Acknowledgments
As Always, thanks to my agent, Josh Getzler, and his team, and to my editor, Bill Harris. Thanks always to the loyal readers who keep coming back for more and help keep Nick and Nora alive!
Dedication
For my cousin Paul Ferrante, who loves to write as much as I do!
Contents
When Sleuthing Spells Trouble
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Epilogue
From Nora’s Kitchen
Books by T. C. LoTempio
About the Author
Prologue
Cruz, California
September, Six Years Earlier
The house was as still as death.
That was Velma Cutter’s first thought as she pushed open the back door and stepped into the spacious kitchen. She paused, head cocked, listening. The only sound she heard was her own breathing, and she frowned. It wasn’t unusual for Dr. Blackthorne to be at the hospital around this time, but surely Mrs. Blackthorne must be somewhere. Her black Ferrari was in the driveway, and a light was on in the upstairs bedroom.
“Mrs. Blackthorne? Dr. Blackthorne? Anyone home?”
No answer.
Velma shrugged out of her thin jacket and hung it on the hook behind the door, then got an apron out of one of the cabinets and slipped it on. As she smoothed it across her plump belly, she thought that perhaps Mrs. Blackthorne might have gone for a quick run. The woman was a fanatic about staying in shape—and she did a good job of it, judging from her petite frame—a decided contrast to the husband, who was at least twenty-five years older than his wife and about twenty pounds overweight. She’d been working for the Blackthornes for the past two years, and so far the arrangement had proven quite satisfactory. She came early in the morning, did the cleaning and any other chores that needed to be done, had her afternoons free, and then returned around five thirty to prepare their dinner. If they hosted a dinner or a cocktail party, of course, she was expected to cook and serve, and clean up afterward—but the pay more than compensated for any inconvenience.
As far as Velma was concerned, it was a job made in heaven, even in spite of all the arguing that had been going on between the couple lately. The one two nights ago had been particularly intense. It had ended with Dr. Blackthorne storming out of the house, Mrs. Blackthorne trailing behind him shouting, “If I find out you are cheating, I’ll kill you! Do you hear me?” The doctor hadn’t even turned around, just jumped into his BMW and sped off, nearly taking the mailbox with him. Mrs. Blackthorne had looked a bit embarrassed when she’d come back inside, and Velma had felt a rush of sympathy for the woman.
Still, their private life was none of her business, unless it should affect her employment.
Velma opened the bottom cabinet and pulled out the roasting pan. Tonight was Dr. Blackthorne’s sixtieth birthday, and Mrs. Blackthorne had requested she prepare his favorite, a crown roast of pork. Velma opened the large double-door refrigerator and started pulling out the ingredients she’d need—garlic, a Spanish onion, celery, the chestnut-and-pear stuffing she’d prepared the day before; and of course, the thirteen-rib pork loin. She got her spices out of the large center cabinet: kosher salt, rosemary, sage, and extra-virgin olive oil. As she assembled everything on the spacious marble countertop, she stood back and frowned. Something was missing—oh, yes, the dry white wine she needed for the sauce. She hurried across the hall into the living room and over to the large redwood bar at the far end near the fireplace. There were about ten bottles of wine stacked behind the bar, all of them red.
She frowned. She could probably use one of the reds, but then she ran the risk of getting a lecture from Dr. Blackthorne on how white wine was the natural partner for the delicate flavor of pork. Mrs. Blackthorne probably wouldn’t be too pleased either. No matter what differences they’d had lately, she’d want everything to be perfect for the old boy’s special day. The prospect of heading back out to the liquor store didn’t exactly thrill her, either, unless . . . Her spirits lifted as she remembered Dr. Blackthorne kept a private stash of his personal favorite, Cloudy Bay Vineyards 2009 Te Koko, a delicious yet pricey Sauvignon Blanc, in the cabinet in his study. Dr. Blackthorne prized that wine almost as much as he prized that bronze bust of Sigmund Freud that sat on the low shelf behind his desk. Dr. Blackthorne probably wouldn’t be thrilled she’d used the wine for pork gravy, but what the heck?
You only turned sixty once.
Velma hurried down the hall toward the doctor’s study, pausing when she was a few feet away. The door was closed, and a thin stream of light emanated from beneath it. Raising her hand, she rapped her knuckles peremptorily on the door.
“Dr. Blackthorne? Mrs. Blackthorne? Are you in there?”
No answer. Velma reached for the knob, and then gasped as her fingers touched something sticky. She pulled her hand back and her breath caught in her throat.
Her fingers were tinged with a red sticky substance that could only be . . . blood.
The feeling of trepidation she’d felt earlier returned, stronger this time. She tamped down the butterflies that stirred in her stomach and pushed open the study door. “Dr. Black—” she began, and then the words died in her throat as she struggled to take in the tableaux before her.
Dr. Blackthorne slumped over in his chair at his desk, his head caked with blood that dripped all over him and down onto the expensive Oriental carpet. And, lying not two feet away was Mrs. Blackthorne, her hand curled around the bust of Freud, its base smeared with blood.
Chapter One
Cruz, Present Day
“Anna, this is a very impressive résumé.”
I flicked an auburn curl out of my eyes and scanned the paper I held in my hand. “You’ve waitressed at Le Cruset and A Touch of Venice the last three years, and in high school you held down part-time jobs at all the popular food chains.” I tapped at the paper with the edge of one nail. “Plus, you’re one semester away from graduating Mission College with a degree in culinary arts.” I hesitated and then added, “You might be a bit overqualified for this job.”
A bit was putting it mildly. Anna Weathers was extremely overqualified for the position I was hiring for—namely, another part-timer to help out at Hot Bread, the sandwich shop I’d inherited from my mother. My sideline catering business had picked up the past few months, due in part to some very good publicity I’d received from catering for a soap opera that had filmed some episodes here in my hometown of Cruz, California. My current part-timer, Mollie, had told me a few weeks ago that she was going to have to cut back on her hours in order to prepare for college boards. I had other help, of course: My BFF, Chantal Gillard, helped out in between her shifts at Poppies, the flower store she co-ran with her brother, and managing her own New Age and homemade jewelry businesses. Although she insisted that working part-time for me was no problem at all, I felt guilty about taking her away from her own thriving enterprises. That left me with my sister Lacey. She was currently living with me and helping out but I knew that wouldn’t last either. Her former employment had been as a sketch artist on the St. Leo Police Department, but budget cuts had put the kibosh on that career. However, a few weeks ago our head of Homicide, Dale Anderson, had asked for her résumé, so I figured it was only a matter of time before she hung up her apron for a sketch pad and pencil. I’d been able to manage nicely with just the four of us, but in recent weeks it had become evident that not only my regular business but my catering sideline were expanding to the point where I needed at least one other dependable person on staff—emphasis on dependable.
“I don’t view myself as being overqualified, Ms. Charles,” the plump brunette in front of me said with an eager smile. “I look on every job I have as a positive learning experience. My plans are to eventually start my own catering business, and who better to learn from than one of the best. You.” She flashed me a wide, toothy smile.
She seemed sincere enough, but still, something about her just didn’t hit me right. “You do understand this position is only part-time, right?”
Her dark curls swung to and fro as she nodded. “Oh, that’s fine. Part-time’s all I’m really interested in right now, anyway. My last semester consists mainly of working at the school kitchen two days a week, so I’m available to be here the other five days as much as you need me.” She flashed me another wide smile. “I’m really very interested in working for you, and in learning from you.”
I tapped my pencil against the table. Anna was certainly a dream come true in almost every respect. Maybe that was what bothered me. She seemed a bit too good. Plus, she was laying on the flattery a little thick. I always wondered about people who did that.
“You wouldn’t make a lot of tips here, like you did waitressing,” I said. “Would that present a problem for you?”
The smile widened. “Not at all. I live at home, and my expenses are pretty minimal. I socked away a lot of the tip money I made at my other jobs against future expenses. Plus, I got a partial scholarship.”
Memories of the three jobs I’d held down while attending college floated through my head. I’d worked part-time at the Chicago Tribune doing everything from fetching coffee to running copy. And when I hadn’t been doing that, I’d stocked shelves at the nearby Barnes and Noble. I slid the résumé back into the manila folder. “Well, I guess that pretty much covers everything, except . . .” I paused, uncertain how to broach my next question. The most important one of all. I let out a deep breath and asked, “How are you with cats?”
“Cats?” Her eyes widened and the toe of her shoe started to beat out a steady tap-tap-tap on my black and white parquet floor. “Well . . . okay, I guess. Why?”
“Ow-orrrr.”
We looked down. One large black and white paw emerged from beneath the table, and then another. A few seconds later a black and white head popped out. “Ow-owrr,” the cat said again.
“Anna, this is Nick. He’s, well, he’s sort of the store mascot.” And my partner in crime solving, in addition to being my furry guardian angel, I added silently.
It was hard to tell just what Anna was thinking as Nick wriggled all the way out from underneath the table and squatted beside my chair. My tuxedo is a bit on the tubby side, but it’s more muscle than fat, although Nick does love to chow down, especially on my leftovers. He cocked his head to one side and slitted his golden eyes, regarding the newcomer thoughtfully.
“My,” Anna said finally. “He’s certainly . . . big, isn’t he?”
“Owwr?” Nick’s eyes popped, and he sat up, his black plume of a tail bristling behind him.
“Something seems to have upset him,” Anna observed. “Look at how the fur on his tail sticks out. Cats get like that when they’re upset about something, right?”
That’s because you’ve insulted him, I wanted to scream, but instead I said calmly, “Nick is very sensitive, particularly about his build. He doesn’t like to be called big, or large or substantial . . . well, you get the idea.”
She looked from me to Nick then back to me. “He understood what I said?” she asked.
I gave a dismissive wave. “He’s in the shop a lot, so if you work here, it’s important that you two get along.”
From the expression on Anna’s face I wondered if the appearance of Nick might be a deal breaker for her, and I was surprised at how elated that thought made me feel. She looked at me again, and this time her expression melted into another sunny smile. “I wasn’t exactly expecting to be interviewed by a cat, but it’s fine.” She shrugged. “My aunt has a cat named Percy, and one of my besties has a Chihuahua. I get along with animals.”
At the word Chihuahua, Nick’s ears went up, then flattened against his skull. His lips pulled back, displaying his sharp white teeth. “Grrrr.”
Anna let out a laugh that sounded more like a nervous titter. “I guess he doesn’t like dogs?” She reached out a French-manicured hand. “Hey there, Ned. You’re a good boy, aren’t you? You’re probably a great mouser.” Her fingers stretched toward Nick, who was now sitting on his haunches, watching her. I caught the gleam in his eye and I rose from my chair, pushed Anna’s hand out of the way just as Nick raised his claw and swiped the air.
“Geez!” She scraped her chair back and stood up. “You didn’t mention he was vicious.”
“You called him Ned. His name is Nick.”
She tugged at her navy jacket and reached for the voluminous tote bag on the floor. “Your cat might be smart, but I’m sure he’s not that smart.”
I saw Nick’s eyes narrow. As Anna’s fingers closed over the tote’s strap, Nick’s paw shot out again. Anna whipped her hand back just in time to avoid a nasty scratch, dropping her tote in the process. Her iPad tumbled out, and before she could reach for it, Nick had plopped his portly body smack! right on top of it.
Anna looked at Nick dubiously. She reached out a tentative hand toward the iPad, and Nick opened his mouth, displaying a generous amount of fang. Anna jumped back. “Great,” she muttered. “I need that iPad. My whole life is on that thing.”
“Come on.” I tugged at her elbow. “Just move away and wait a few minutes. He’ll get tired of sitting on it and get up, and then I can get it for you.”
Anna regarded Nick with a deep frown. “Are you sure? He looks pretty comfortable to me.”
Indeed, Nick did look comfortable, spread out full length across the iPad, his paws folded neatly in front of him. Anna took another tentative step forward and he raised his head, let out a low hiss. Anna jumped back as if she’d been stung.
“You know what?” She glanced quickly at her watch, and then slung her tote over her shoulder. “I’ll stop back later and pick my iPad up. I have another appointment that I don’t want to be late for.” She started edging toward the door, her gaze still riveted on Nick.
